


sunday morning

by focusfixated



Series: to steal light from dawn [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Deleted Scene, Edgeplay, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 09:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20655023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/focusfixated/pseuds/focusfixated
Summary: Aziraphale reached down, one-handed, and in a truly dexterous manoeuvre that had nothing to do with miracles and everything to do with the angel's ludicrous penchant for sleight-of-hand human magic, he unbuckled Crowley’s belt.A deleted scene that didn't make it intoto steal light from dawn.





	sunday morning

**Author's Note:**

> this is a deleted scene from [to steal light from dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526467/chapters/48719081). i very much enjoyed the sunday morning canoodling in front of the telly, but it was wrong for the pace of the story, so it got cut.
> 
> you can read this on its own, but there's more context to the things aziraphale & crowley are doing if you read the main story. ALSO: this scene happens earlier on in the story, before they sort themselves out, so warning that this doesn't end on a particularly happy and positive note...!

\---

It was a lazy Sunday morning – for a given meaning of the word _lazy_, or the concept of _Sundays_, neither of which were notions particularly relevant to ethereal or occult beings unconstrained by the passage of time. But Aziraphale was partial to the Sunday morning cookery shows on TV, and Crowley was partial to curling up next to Aziraphale on the sofa, so that’s what they were doing.

This particular Sunday, Nigella was onscreen giving them handy tips for easy summer desserts, and Crowley was snugly bracketed by Aziraphale’s thighs as he leaned back against him on the sofa, doing a fiendishly difficult Sudoku puzzle that he was deliberately filling out incorrectly, even though (or, especially because) Aziraphale kept calling out the answers and huffing whenever Crowley wrote it down wrong.

“You – _Crowley_, you’re doing it on purpose,” Aziraphale said, the third time Crowley intentionally ignored him. At this point, Crowley had stopped writing numbers down altogether and was instead scribbling occult sigils in the boxes every time Aziraphale called something out.

“Entirely,” Crowley said, adding little cartoon devil horns to the ‘S’ of ‘Sudoku’.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Demon,” Crowley reminded him, wriggling back happily against Aziraphale.

It was the hell-depths of summer, feverishly warm, extremely uncomfortable for any discerning Englishperson who was not naturally equipped to handle anything that fell outside the standard _cloudy, with scattered showers_. Crowley, who ran hot anyway and didn’t mind the heat, had refused to wear anything but tight, black denim or leather, no matter the time of year, for at least the last forty of them. Aziraphale, however, had forgone his usual tailored slacks in favour of airy, linen trousers – which meant there was currently much less than usual in the way of material between Aziraphale’s cock and the place where it pressed snugly, half-hard, against Crowley’s backside. 

It was starting to get a little difficult to concentrate.

Against the background of Nigella’s seductive enthusiasm for chocolate and strawberry meringue, and the twitter of distant birds through the sun-bright open window, Crowley’s biro scritched increasingly haltingly against the paper of his puzzle book. He fidgeted again, and felt Aziraphale shift behind him in response.

“_And on the gorgeous layer of cocoa_,” Nigella said, “_a fat, gleaming wodge of double cream_.”

“Delicious,” Aziraphale murmured. His cock was almost all-the-way hard now, and his hand had started to move imperceptibly up Crowley’s thigh.

Crowley grinned. “One of these days I’m going to get jealous about how much dessert turns you on.”

“It’s not the dessert,” Aziraphale protested.

“Of course not,” Crowley said, agreeably, though he was remembering a particular incident only last month when he’d made pistachio ice cream so good that Aziraphale moaned his way through the first few mouthfuls and then was apparently so overcome by the taste of it that he'd insisted on eating the rest of it off Crowley’s bare stomach and ended up turning an already sticky situation into an even stickier one by fucking him on the kitchen table. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said crossly, probably remembering the exact same incident, and charmingly embarrassed by it. He retaliated by yanking Crowley’s shirt up under his armpits, baring his belly and chest to the air.

Crowley felt a rush of blood straight to his cock, a spike of desire inside him that left him light-headed. He was already hot all over, just from the feel of Aziraphale pressed up against him, and he felt his nipples harden in the breeze from the window.

“How’s that?” Aziraphale murmured, hips thrusting hard and slow behind him. Both hands were on Crowley’s chest, trailing softly up and down his sternum, across his ribs, his stomach, a faint feathering of fingers making Crowley’s skin shiver and jump, a soft, electric arousal skimming across his whole body.

“_G_-good—”

“And this?” Aziraphale reached up and pinched Crowley’s nipples, hard.

Crowley jerked, like a livewire had been applied directly to him, shocking him into arching his back with a moan. His own hands were gripping intermittently up and down Aziraphale’s thighs, thrusting up into the air to find friction for his cock, but getting nothing except Aziraphale’s fingers on his chest.

“You feel _wonderful_,” Aziraphale said, into Crowley’s ear, as he continued to thrust and grind against him, his voice low. “So _good_ against my cock, you’re just – so _tempting_, my dear, making me so _hard_ for you—”

Crowley let out a small, pitiful sound. He wanted so badly to get some kind of relief, to unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans and pull out his cock, but Aziraphale had now laced both their left and right hands together, and was keeping them pinned to the sofa cushions. “Aziraphale,” Crowley gasped, writhing, starting to feel a little desperate. He wouldn’t usually be so quick to lose it like this, but he’d been on the edge for days, now. His cock was leaking, he could feel the wetness gathering, damp in his trousers, and it pushed hard against the bite of his fly. “Please, angel, I – I need—”

Aziraphale seemed to take pity on him, or else he was worried about the state of Crowley’s prick, trapped as it was in his impossible, painted-on jeans. He reached down, one-handed, and in a truly dexterous manoeuvre that had nothing to do with miracles and everything to do with Aziraphale’s ludicrous penchant for sleight-of-hand human magic, unbuckled Crowley’s clanking, metallic belt, flicked open the button, unzipped him and shoved at his jeans until they were down around his thighs.

“Oh_god_, oh satan-_fffuck_.” Crowley dropped his head back onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. His cock, free of its denim trappings, arched up, flushed-red and aching.

Aziraphale leaned down to bite gently at the slope of Crowley’s neck, licking and sucking and lathing his wet tongue against the skin there. Crowley whined, bucking up his hips, but Aziraphale was holding him down, kissing his skin, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world, and not an extremely sensitive and needful demon begging in his lap.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley moaned. “Pl-please, oh please, you’re, _ah_, k-killing me.”

Aziraphale pulled off his neck with a wet, sucking sound. “Impossible,” he said. “Inconveniencing you mildly, at best.” He nosed into the back of Crowley’s hair, where a prickle of sweat was gathering. “You’re so overdramatic, darling.”

“Oh _ffff_fuck,” Crowley gasped, as Azirphale let go of his hips to pluck sharply at both Crowley’s nipples again, then soothed firmly over the reddened, sensitive nubs. “For heaven – _fuck! _– heaven’s sake, angel, you’re really n-not going to – _oh _– to t-touch me?” He thrust up again, trying to convince Aziraphale’s hands to move southwards. “Even when – I’m a-asking you _ssss_so nicely?”

“I think you’ll find,” Azriaphale said, and his voice was shaking a little, like he was trying hard to maintain his composure himself, “that I’m giving you _precisely _what you asked for.” And with a tight grip back on Crowley’s hips, he started thrusting hard and fast against him, movements erratic and jerky, letting out little _oh, oh, oh_ sounds as he sped up, and all Crowley could do was lie back, useless and hopelessly turned on, and let Aziraphale finish.

Except Aziraphale didn’t. With a deep, shuddering breath, he suddenly stilled his movements, pressing his hard, linen-clothed cock against Crowley’s bare arse one last time, before pulling away, separating them.

Crowley’s fingers were buried in the meat of Aziraphale’s thighs in a desperate grip, his whole body strung bow-tight, his prick hard and leaking. A moment passed, with only the sound of Aziraphale’s breathing in his ear over the background mutter of the TV.

“Up,” Aziraphale said eventually, tapping against the sides of Crowley’s legs. His voice was quiet. “Stay there, I’ll be right back.”

Weakly, Crowley leaned forward, letting Aziraphale extricate himself from the depths of their chintzy, heavy rug-covered sofa. He walked out, Crowley following him dazedly with his eyes, staring at the hard line of his cock in his trousers which Aziraphale hadn’t let him see or touch for days.

Crowley sat, straight-backed and stiff, instead of his usual languid sprawl, fingers gripping his bony knees, jeans still pulled down to his thighs. His cock was a heavy, aching thing, but he didn’t dare move to touch it. He felt if he did he might just come apart.

Somewhere distant, the bells of the parish church were ringing for the eleven o’clock mass. Onscreen, Nigella was blitzing raspberries into ice-cream. There was no other sound in the house.

When Aziraphale came back into the room, he looked a little pink-cheeked but otherwise composed. He stood in front of Crowley. “Stand,” he said. Crowley stood. Gently, Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s jeans up over his thighs, though he left them unzipped. Crowley leaned into Aziraphale, dizzy, breath shallow, skin prickling.

“Come on, then.” Aziraphale sat back down on the sofa. “Watch the rest of the programme with me.”

Slowly, heavy-limbed and feeling a bit thick in the head, Crowley came to sit beside Aziraphale, bringing his unsocked toes up onto the cushions. With a satisfied sound, Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley’s shoulders.

For the rest of the show, Crowley didn’t pay attention to any of the chopping, mixing or blending that was happening onscreen. All he could think about was the electric brush of sensation where Aziraphale’s hand was tucked up into his hair, thumb moving back and forth softly against his scalp.

And there was a strange, empty feeling in his chest, too, an ache that had nothing to do with his arousal, heavy and troubling.

**Author's Note:**

> [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnR397s_1zg) is the episode of nigella's delicious desserts referenced.
> 
> come say hi [on tumblr](https://focusfixated.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
